


We Are Infinite Too

by Ride4812



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Actually uplifting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Character Death, Even though there's sadness, M/M, Psychics, Reincarnation, Suicide, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 16:29:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11421789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ride4812/pseuds/Ride4812
Summary: The soulmate AU I promised I'd never write."You last forever. The two of you are forever. If the Earth stops spinning and the sun combusts, your souls will still find their way to each other. They are bound together. You will last forever,even when there's nothing left."Thank you Stephi (@Steorie) for giving me permission to use your incredible artwork. Check out more of Stephi's work here:https://www.redbubble.com/de/people/steorie





	We Are Infinite Too

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who helped me with translations! (Leanna, Tali & Cristy)  
> Thank you always to my Mandy who helps me think and edits my crazy use of commas (and everything else).  
> Thank you all for reading!

_-Rolling over to gaze at the endless expanse of the sea, he knew that they were going to be infinite, too.- ___

____

Ian thought the view on the beach was beautiful, even in the dark. He couldn’t see much of the ocean, just the breaks of the waves that were illuminated by the full moon. And though the stars were twinkling in the deep inky sky, their brightness didn’t compare to the glint in Mickey’s glassy blue eyes. With sunburned cheeks and smiling lips, Mickey rested his tattooed hands on Ian’s thin hips. “I love you,” the brunet confessed, his voice dropped low not because he was ashamed for anyone to know, but because the words were only for him. 

“You’re drunk,” Ian laughed, slotting their mouths together and taking pleasure in the taste of tequila on his husband’s tongue. 

“Like I only tell you that when I am?” he flirted, his teeth nibbling on Ian’s lower lip, “tell you that shit all the time.” 

“But you’re not as breathy about it. You’re breathy right now,” Ian pointed out, “all dramatic, sexy and sultry.”

“Fuck off,” he scoffed with a bashful grin, playfully shoving him away. He laughed when Ian came after him, looping his arms around his waist and burying his face into the crook of his neck. 

“I like it,” he hummed, pressing a kiss onto the soft skin while taking a deep inhale of his husband’s intoxicating scent. It enchanted him, just always had. Though the salty sea air, cigarette smoke, and delicious food at Jorge’s Cantina attempted to permeate his senses, it was always the smell of Mickey that drew him in and kept him. 

After years of deliberation, leaving the South Side for Puerto Peñasco hadn't been as difficult as he thought it would be. Life without Mickey had been harder and the realization that he could be relegated to living the rest of his days without him was unfathomable. Though he was happier than he'd ever been, he still found that sometimes pangs of homesickness would hit his chest. When they did, he cuddled close to his husband, breathed him in, and remembered that home was wherever he was; it always had been.

He couldn't remember a time when he didn't love Mickey. Through all the bullshit and pain, the love had remained, even during the years when he was too weak or selfish to prove it. Sometimes being surrounded by a scent that triggered a ten year timeline of emotions was too difficult to bear; regrets of time wasted, of promises broken, thoughts of what he could have done differently. There was so much weight in the memories; leaden moments had nearly sunk them, but in the end, never could. 

"You smell like the South Side," Ian hummed against his skin. 

"I smell like piss?" He questioned with a smirk, rubbing Ian's back underneath his white v-neck t-shirt. The redhead laughed and shook his head. 

"You're just," he paused, closing his eyes as he relished his husband's soothing touch, "every part of it, every part of me." 

"Puerto Penasco smells better." He stated simply. 

"You're Puerto Penasco, too," He promised with a grin, wrapping his arms tighter around his everything. Mickey was his present, past, and future; every moment, every memory, every dream. Sometimes he wondered how one person could represent that much and realized it was easy to do when that person was made for you, and you for them. 

Mickey laughed quietly at statement, holding back his taunting in favor of passionate kisses. Love had been hard for him years before; whether he'd been denying it or over supplying it. He wanted to chide himself for giving too much, but it had always been what Ian needed even if he'd denied it at the time. He'd wanted to believe that in the end, his love saved Ian in the same way it had liberated him. Standing on the beach a quarter mile away from the home they'd purchased in Mexico, proved to him that he did. "Need you," he whispered between fervent kisses, letting his hand slide down the front of Ian's jeans. 

The redhead sighed into Mickey's mouth as his husband grasped around his shaft and began to stroke him slowly. The sound of the waves gently crashing a few feet away drowned out his soft panting. "Let's go," he urged, grabbing Mickey's wrist to remove it from his dick and intertwining their fingers. 

It was late. They knew that Svetlana and Yevgeny would be fast asleep in the bungalow they shared with them on the beach. The anticipation of being able to let go in the bedroom more than they would on a typical weeknight had them walking fast down the final stretch of sand. Their mission was interrupted by a man’s voice calling to them from where he sat on a tattered old blanket, surrounded by candles. “Almas gemelas,” He cried, old eyes wide. 

“Que (What)?” Ian asked confused, taken aback by the fact that the man was sitting alone in the middle of the night on the empty dark beach. 

“Es raro para mi cruzarme con dos almas tan conectadas. Ven, siéntate conmigo. Déjame hablarte. Sería un honor,” He said, speaking too quickly for Ian or Mickey to follow. 

Though their Spanish was improving, neither was fluent in the language, even after being in Mexico for a few years.

“No tengo ni idea de lo que acabas de decir (I have no idea what you just said),” Mickey stated with an exasperated sigh. “No hablo mucho español (We're not fluent in Spanish)."

“I speak English,” He said, his accent heavy. “I said you are soulmates. It is rare for me to come across two souls so connected. Come sit with me. Let me speak with you. It would be my honor.”

“Your honor?” Mickey asked skeptically, eyebrows raised high, “You some kinda weird fetish fucker or something?” Ian squeezed his hand tightly, a non-verbal cue to shut the fuck up. 

The elderly man laughed at Mickey's assertion, rubbing his hands over his grey beard, seemingly unfazed by his brashness. "Soy un psíquico y médium," He informed them, shaking his head when he realized he'd spoken in Spanish. "I am a psychic and medium." 

"Congratu-fucking-lations," Mickey stated, furrowing his brow. "We ain't interested and we're outta here."

"No thanks," Ian said politely, as his husband practically yanked his arm out of his socket to indicate they were moving on. The redhead knew better to argue with Mickey when he was horny, and he was that into talking to a psychic anyway. 

"You have suffered greatly Mikhailo," The man stated, his voice loud enough to be heard by the couple who had begun to walk away. 

"The fuck did you just say to me?" Mickey demanded, swinging around to watch the elderly man struggling to his feet so he could walk towards them. 

"Mick," Ian warned, his heart beating fast as he glanced over his shoulder to see if the man had a more agile accomplice coming to jump them. It wouldn't be unheard of in Mickey's line of work for him to make enemies. 

"I said you have suffered. You've suffered at the hands of your mother, your father, the system, yourself," he paused and regarded Ian, "your lover."

Instinctively, Ian rested his hand on the small of Mickey's back, protective and tender. "How did you know his name?" The redhead demanded, honing in on the stuttering breath his husband exhaled and moving his hand so it was holding his hip tightly.

"I see things. I know things; past, present and future," He said simply, gesturing towards his blanket. "Come sit with me. Please," he paused, brown eyes beseeching, "I've never had an opportunity to speak to two people as connected as you."

Mickey glared at him with equal parts skepticism, aggravation and awe. "Don't wanna hear that shit's gonna fall apart." He wanted to say that he'd had to endure life without Ian before and couldn't do it again, to admit that the thought of being without him made him physically ill, to admit that missing him had been the worst emotion he'd ever had to cope with, but instead of he going there he said, "Things always do, right? Nothing lasts forever." The buzz of the tequila had dissipated as soon as the old man called out has name, and he wished his mind still felt altered, rather than exposed. 

"You last forever. The two of you are forever. If the Earth stops spinning and the sun combusts, your souls will still find their way to each other. They are bound together. You will last forever," he assured the brunet, with an alarmingly earnest look on his face, "even when there's nothing left."

"Why the fuck are you out here when there's nobody around?" Mickey questioned, "This ain't a busy stretch of beach, even during the day."

"I felt compelled to come and now I know why; for you," He stated in amazement. "I came here for you."

"You better watch yourself," Ian cautioned, feeling the familiar discomfort of jealousy grabbing his lungs. 

"And for you," he added quickly, "for you, Ian, who has always been born so sweet. There's never been a life where you haven't started out that way, it has only been a question of how soft you'd remain."

"How did you know my name?" He asked, drawing a slight laugh from the elderly man's mouth as he turned to head back to his blanket. He knew they would come with him and smiled when they did. 

"I know yours, but you do not know mine," he tisked, ignoring the question that he'd already answered. He gestured for the men to take a seat, "I am Benedicto."

Ian and Mickey exchanged glances, a conversation without words, both wondering if they should listen to what he had to say. When it came down to it, the pull was too strong, the temptation too appealing. They sat down as far as they could from Benedicto while still remaining on the blanket, and as close as they could be to each other. 

"It is interesting that you both pretend to deny it, but I know you are in tune with the words I am saying. Once a man has held the soul of the person he's been eternally promised to, he understands. The feelings I describe, you've already felt, and that is more impactful than my utterance of your names," the elderly man explained, "many times words cannot speak to an emotion; only feelings can."

Though he would've never described himself as talkative, Mickey was completely unable to access words after listening to Benedicto's statement. It was out of the ordinary for him to seek fleshy comfort from Ian in front of people, but he found himself cuddled up tight with his husband; lips pressed against Ian's neck and fingers intertwined. Ian tilted his head down and whispered, "Do you wanna go?"

"Nah," he replied, "kinda wanna know what the fuck he's talking about."

Benedicto cleared his throat. "Now, I could tell you about the present but you already know it, because you live it and your future," he paused to look at two sets of anxious eyes, "your future is beautiful. People are only given what they are able to endure in a lifetime. You reached your threshold in this difficult life. Smooth sailing from now on for men who were forced to navigate choppy waters. You've survived it, now you live free."

"So, that's it?" Mickey questioned with a scoff, "that's what you wanted to tell us?" 

"I want to tell you about your pasts so you can truly understand just how deep your connection is."

"We fucking lived them, don't gotta hear about 'em," Mickey stated, not interested in rehashing the pain of prior years.

"Not your past in this lifetime but in the lifetimes before... reencarnación."

"Reincarnation?" Ian asked. Though the night was warm, he felt chills creep down his spine at the word. He hadn't given much thought to the concept, but Benedicto's knowledge of their names and the sincerity of his speech had him reeling, considering. 

"Yes," Benedicto replied simply, "you've lived three lives before this one and in every lifetime you've found this same love. Almas gemelas, soulmates, born to love each other, over and over again." The elderly man took a deep breath, seemingly overwhelmed by emotion. "Your love knows no bounds."

Both Ian and Mickey were frozen in place, knuckles white from grasping hands so urgently. Their first instinct was to be leery of the man and what he was proposing, but their doubt waned when they reflected on the intensity of their feelings for one another; the connection they had was so different from anything else they'd witnessed. While their siblings fell in and out of relationships, each pairing more surface than the last, they remained, endured. Even during their darkest days, when they'd attempted to train themselves to live without each other, they knew. Moving on had proved to be futile; every moment spent with someone who didn't understand the darkest and most desperate corners of their soul brought more pain than pleasure. 

"The fuck?" Mickey muttered, reason demanding he remain dubious, while his heart knew better. 

"Three lives?" Ian asked, "What..." he shook his head, unsure of how to phrase the question, "what were we like? Where were we or whatever?"

Mickey's head shot to side so he could look at Ian. He would have been surprised that his husband was buying it, if he hadn't been contemplating it himself. 

"What?" The redhead inquired almost bashfully. He settled a bit when Mickey leaned in to kiss his forehead, a silent agreement that he was going to listen with a patient mind and an open heart. He reached into his back pocket to pull out his carton of cigarettes in a lighter. Sliding one between Ian's lips and another between his own, he lit them up with trembling hands. 

Benedicto gazed at Mickey, the flickering flame of the candles that lined his blanket dancing across his slate grey eyes. "You were a King, Mikhailo."

"A king?" Mickey snickered, eyebrows raised high with equal parts incredulity and amusement. 

"My king," Ian crooned quietly, catching his husband's lips. 

"Corny motherfucker," the brunet chided without malice, kissing Ian back. 

"A king," Benedicto confirmed, "the King of Wales to be precise. You fell head over heels in love with the Irish ambassador's son." He looked directly at Ian, "you."

"So, we were gay back in the..." Ian trailed off waiting for the psychic to fill in the blanks. 

"The late 1530's."

Mickey let out a wry laugh. "Sure that ended well, huh?" 

"It ended as well as it could," Benedicto stated with a shrug. "Only months after meeting Ian, you gave up your crown and moved back to Ireland with him."

"The fuck, Gallagher!" Mickey tisked playfully, deciding to have fun with the conversation even though it was freaking him the fuck out. "Gave up my fucking crown for your dumbass."

"I'll buy you one," Ian offered with a grin, enjoying the levity in Mickey's tone. 

"Shit better be gold then. Ain't gonna fuck around with plastic after I gave up my throne for you."

"I'll see what I can do."

Benedicto smiled at them as he appreciated their easy banter. "Shall I go on?"

They nodded. 

"Life in Galway was beautiful for you; though your physical work on the farm was heavy, everything else was light and easy. It was very much the antithesis of the stress you endured in Wales..." 

***

**Galway, Ireland June 1541 ******

********

****

Galway was always incredible, but Mickey found it to be the most stunning in the summer. It was his second June in Ireland and the beauty hadn’t ceased to amaze him. In Wales, he spent years living among the most impressive gardens and lush landscapes, but even the impeccably well-maintained grounds of his castle paled in comparison to the splendor of Galway. He wasn’t sure if it was because of the land itself or the man whose feet walked beside him on it. He looked from Ian’s weathered boots to his own as they ambled through a rolling field of daises; the green of the grass washed white with flowers. 

“They’re never-ending,” He mused, as he admired the expanse of blooms. 

“Would you want them to?” Ian asked with a smirk that easily gave way to a smile when his boyfriend passed a basket of barley into his other hand and reached over to intertwine their fingers as they walked. “Mo fhear álainn (my beautiful man),” He crooned, gazing into eyes as blue as the cloudless sky. 

Mickey grinned back at him, feeling that everything should be infinite in Galway. The hours past too quickly, the flowers would eventually die, and every moment that slipped away from them was one they’d never be able to grasp onto again. Time with Ian was too short. If they had forever, he’d wish for another day. “Wanna sit down for a minute?” He asked, gesturing to a grouping of pink blossom trees in the near distance. 

The redhead nodded knowingly, picking up his pace and pulling Mickey along with him. They laughed their way to the base of the trees, tossing their harvest onto the vibrant grass as they tumbled to the ground, lips pressed passionately against each other, tongues tangled. “Is breá liom tú (I love you),” Ian exhaled into his lover’s mouth, assuring that Mickey swallowed the words and their sentiment spread through his veins like blood pumping into his heart.

“Is breá liom tú,” Mickey promised, climbing on top his boyfriend so he was straddling his waist; taking in the beauty below him. “Go deo (forever). Beidh mé grá duit go deo (I’ll love you forever).”

“Agus ina dhiaidh sin (and beyond)?” Ian asked softly, chuckling when the brunet nuzzled his face into the nape of his neck and blew a sloppy raspberry. 

“Go deo agus ina dhiaidh sin (forever and beyond),” He confirmed, grinning at how rosy Ian’s cheeks were, stained with the evidence of his laughter and love. 

“You’re doing well with your Gaelic,” he complimented, reaching up to push a stray lock of black hair off Mickey’s pale forehead. 

“You only teach me nice shit to say to you,” he retorted, laughing when Ian grabbed him under the armpits and slammed him down onto the soft tuft of fragrant grass. 

“It’s because that’s all I say to you,” Ian reasoned, unable to keep a straight face, though he tried.

“Oh yeah?” Mickey challenged, “You weren’t saying nice shit to me last night when you were bitching about me stealing the blanket.”

“I don’t even know why you needed it, it wasn’t cold and you have me,” he groused, “You were all wrapped up in it and I couldn’t get to you. I like to feel you against me.”

“Ah, so that’s what it was about,” he smirked, “I was denying your needy ass access.” 

Ian shrugged. “It’s your fault.”

“What’s my fault?” 

“You made me this way,” he said simply, “made me crave you.”

“How the fuck did I do that?” Mickey licked his full lips salaciously, an open invitation that Ian eagerly took. 

“This mouth,” he hummed as his hands traveled down his boyfriend’s body, “this heart,” he tapped his fingers against Mickey’s chest for affect before letting them move lower, “this dick, perfect dick.”

“Mmm, that right, Gallagher?” Mickey flirted as Ian’s digits trailed over the bulge in his pants to his backside.

“This ass. You got the best ass,” he complimented, grasping two heaping handfuls of his boyfriend’s butt, “I love it.” He adjusted himself so he was on top of Mickey and could sidle down his body. “These knees. Never got on them before me, learned to bow for me the way I bowed to you.” 

“Always got me on my knees for you,” Mickey said, his breath hitching as Ian’s mouth grazed over the crotch of his pants. 

“Now they’re bruised and sore from collecting barley,” Ian reflected, looking up at Mickey with sadness in his eyes and guilt in his heart, “the life you gave up for me.” He shook his head and sighed.

“Don’t do this,” the brunet chided, “told you not to fucking do it, baby.” He sat up a bit so he could pull his lanky boyfriend on top of him, and then laid down flat, bodies pressed flank against each other. Mickey hated it when Ian blamed himself for all he had seemingly lost, failing to realize that he had gained more than he’d ever expected to have in his life and would do it all over again if given a choice.

“Do you miss it? Any of it?” Ian inquired, searching Mickey’s eyes for an honest answer.

“Not the castle, the power, the country,” he replied , “I guess I miss Thomas and Svetlana though.” 

“We should go,” the redhead suggested, “Thomas said in his latest letter that England would consider it a friendly visit.”

Mickey shook his head and clicked his tongue. “England can say a lot of shit, and they do, but that don’t mean I’m gonna believe it. Ain’t worth it.”

“You think they’d really fuck with you?” Ian asked skeptically.

“Not trying to find out. Got too much to live for to die for a country that didn’t give a shit about me in the end. I’d rather live for you than die for them.”

Ian nodded, not wanting to push the subject even though he knew Mickey missed his friends more than he cared to admit. He rolled off him so they were lying beside one another, staring up at the colorful limbs of the trees above them, admiring how streams of sunlight made their way through the cuts and gaps in the canopy. “An bhfuil cinnte mé leat chun a chreidiúint i taibhsí go fóill (have I convinced you to believe in ghosts yet)?” he questioned, drawing a laugh from Mickey’s lips. 

“B'fhéidir beagán níos mó ná a bhí agam (maybe a little more than I did),” he conceded, shaking his head at his boyfriend’s persistence on the subject.

“I want to live for you, die for you and then live for you again,” Ian confessed, “Promise me if there isn’t more than this life you’ll be with me in death.” Mickey’s eyes grew wide at the seriousness in his boyfriend’s tone, the conversation typically more teasing and playful than it seemed to be under the shade of the flowered tree. “Promise me you’ll believe we can be eternal even when we’re dead.” 

“I promise,” Mickey assured him, squeezing his hands, “I promise I’ll love you when we’re ghosts.” 

The redhead let out a labored sigh, smiled and rested his hand on his boyfriend’s pale cheek, “Mo spiorad álainn (my beautiful ghost).”

***

“So, I was really a king?” Mickey questioned, nodding his head in amazement while regarding Benedicto somewhat cautiously, “That’s pretty fucking cool.” 

“That’s what you took away from it? That you were a king?” Ian scoffed, poking his husband in the rib cage. 

“Your jealousy’s showing, Gallagher,” the brunet teased with a smirk. He raised his eyebrows, “Fucking royalty. Think I’m gonna make your ass bow to me from now on.” 

“King Mikhailo sounds sweeter than South Side Mikhailo,” Ian stated with a tisk, laughing when Mickey tickled under his armpit. 

“You’d like it though… bowing,” Mickey flirted, “know you’d like that shit.” 

The old man cleared his throat, causing Ian and Mickey to turn to him quickly and clamp their mouths shut. He smiled at them both before focusing on Mickey, “You were a better boyfriend than king.” 

“I’m a really fucking good boyfriend, so that ain’t saying much,” he replied easily. 

“The best,” Ian assured him, “even better husband.”

“You two are very sweet with each other even when you’re speaking,” Benedicto paused searching for the correct term, “brashly.” 

“Grew up together,” Ian replied, “been giving each other shit for a while.” 

“Longer than you ever imagined,” the psychic reminded him. 

“Was I ever anything special? A king or whatever?” Ian asked tentatively. 

“You’ve always been special,” Benedicto said carefully, “but never royalty.” 

“Letting him down easy,” Mickey laughed, earning a hard smack in the arm from his husband. “You’re pouting, Firecrotch. If I could’ve chosen I would’ve let you be the king, arlight?”

“I don’t need your pity throne.” 

“Such a bitch,” the brunet chided without malice. 

“So, would you like to hear about your next life?” Benedicto asked, looking forward to changing the subject.

“Up to you,” Mickey said looking into his husband’s green eyes and tilting his head with a shrug.

“Yeah, let’s do it,” He agreed, reaching for Mickey’s hand again. 

“This current life wasn’t the first in which you had military dreams,” Benedicto began, causing a shock of emotion to course through Ian’s body; forgotten ambitions and lost chances, “you were 16 years old when you enlisted in the army to fight with the Union during the American Civil war…” 

 

***

**Gettysburg, Pennsylvania July 1863 ******

********

********

Though sleeping on the ground was never his first choice, Mickey found that lying under peach trees next to his carrot top was preferable to other options. Being at war wasn’t about comfort, but he’d lucked out to find some in a freckle faced little liar. He’d been able to tell as soon as he saw Ian standing behind him in line at enlistment that he wasn’t of age, but it seemed that men of a higher rank either didn’t notice or chose to ignore the obvious. He was surprised to find during their brief training that Ian was proficient with weapons as if he’d practiced and used them in a war in the womb. It seemed it was easier for many to overlook his baby face when it was accompanied by skillful hands; Mickey included.

It wasn’t as though his mouth had sought Ian’s out; it just seemed their lips found each other whenever the sun dipped low in the sky, allowing the moon to rise. It had started with whiskey and loneliness and ended in love. Sloppy stolen kisses gave way to leaving their virginity behind in ditches and whispers of promises they hoped they could keep. 

“Ian.” He gently shook the man beside him, who startled immediately at the touch.

“Are they coming?” the redhead’s voice practically squeaked as he reached for his rifle. 

“Shh,” Mickey soothed, shaking his head and glancing around to see if Ian’s reaction had woken any of the other men in their regiment. When he saw they were still sound asleep he gave his lover a sideways smile and bit his lip, “c’mere.”

Returning the grin, Ian crawled on his elbows closer to Mickey and slotted their mouths together. The kiss was as candied as it was clandestine; magnets pulling towards each other even when they should have repelled apart. 

“You taste like peaches,” Mickey murmured, careful to keep his voice.

“I ate like five of them,” he replied, “I was really hungry.”

Mickey sighed at the confession, “You’re gonna get diarrhea real bad.”

“Fuck, really?” He whispered.

Mickey shrugged. “I think so. Our stomachs have been empty and that’s a lotta fiber to put in it.” 

“Shit.”

“Fucking literally,” He laughed quietly, causing an embarrassed grin to pull at his boyfriend’s lips.

“You’ll have to cover me. I don’t wanna get lit up when I’m taking a dump.”

“I got your back,” Mickey promised glancing down at Ian’s crotch, “and your front.” 

“Do you now?” Ian flirted, leaning back in for another kiss. He let out a breathy gasp when Mickey dropped his hands down his pants and positioned his palm against his shaft, beginning to rub. “Feels good,” Ian mewled, “keep going.” 

Mickey watched the pleasure wash over his boyfriend’s face as he increased his pace. He’d never get over how beautiful the other man was; how the evidence of his contentment could do more for him than his own fulfillment. A loud cough from a nearby soldier had them jumping apart and laying their heads down on the grass, allowing the overgrown blades to tickle their skin as they attempted to slow their breaths. 

A set of toes tapping against his knee reassured Mickey that nobody had seen them, but they both knew better than to go for it again. Instead, they engaged in a playful game of footsie until they drifted back to sleep. 

Their brigade was up before daybreak to make their way to Little Round Top, an order that came specifically from Major General Meade himself. Holding the high ground would be paramount to a potential Union victory; a victory they believed would be a turning point in the war, one that would send them home to their mothers and their future. 

“You feeling alright?” He asked as they trudged up the elevation.

Ian nodded and gave him a companionable pat on the back, his hand lingering just a bit longer than was friendly. When they reached the top of the mountain, they stood next to each other taking in the expanse of the battlefield down below them. Their bodies thrummed with adrenaline as they received their orders from the commanding officer; whatever it took, they were to hold the line. 

Blasts and bangs rang through their ears as the battle began. Bullets rained down on the army below, their position proving to be as positive as they’d hoped it would. Mickey felt his body relax as he watched the Confederates retreat, not expecting the cry he heard next.

“Behind,” A comrade yelled, causing the battalion to shift and spin to face their adversaries that had snuck up the mountain while they’d been distracted with the faction in front of them. 

“I need to reload,” Ian yelled to Mickey as they dropped down to their bellies, attempting to remain as flat to the ground as possible while they fired their guns. 

“Do it. I’ll cover you,” Mickey assured him as Ian pulled up to reach for his ammunition. Nimble hands loaded the gun expertly and allowed the redhead to get flank to the ground at a swift pace. “Got it?” 

“Yeah, I’m good,” he replied, green eyes fixed on the enemy.

Though the air was full of noise, Mickey couldn’t miss the sick thud of a skull falling to rock beside him. He snapped his head to the side to see Ian lying prone; red hair soaked with blood, all his dreams left on a rock to die.

Albany, New York September 1864 

It was strange to be home having lived a lifetime since he last stepped foot in his mother’s house. He endured the weepy hugs from family, unable to hold back his own tears when he thought of what their homecoming would have been like if Ian was still alive; if he’d made his way out of the hell instead of perishing on the battlefield. Mickey would’ve sat down to dinner and snuck of afterward to meet up with him. They’d establish a secret spot where they could be finally be free to explore each other’s bodies in ways they hadn’t been able to with their fellow soldiers lying beside them. 

He apologized for his emotions, telling his worried family that he was exhausted. Making his way up to his bedroom, he laid down and wished he was still on the ground of the orchard rather than his lonely bed that couldn’t provide nearly as much comfort as Ian could. 

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed in the same spostaring up at the ceiling or what had finally compelled him to walk over to the book shelf to pull out a spine that looked unfamiliar to him. He knew, however, it was for a reason and had a suspicion of what that was. Slowly, he turned the pages in the Robert Browning book of poetry to the dog-eared tabs, focusing on the words that had the slight indentation of a dragged fingernail beneath them:

"What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?"

"My sun sets to rise again." 

"So, fall asleep love, loved by me... for I know love, I am loved by thee."

Floored when each quote reminded him more of his love than the last, he gently tucked the book under his arm and walked down the stairs to the living room where his mother was knitting him new socks. 

“Ma, this your book?” He asked, handing it to her and watching as she studied it with perplexed eyes. 

She shook her head, “I’ve never seen it before, honey. You know I’m not one for poetry.”

“Is it Mandy’s?” 

His mother just looked at him with amusement on her face, “Your sister is beautiful, Mikhailo, but she is not much of a reader. You were gone a while, but that much hasn’t changed.”

Mickey glanced back down at the book before looking to his mother. “You cooking something?”

“I’m not, but I could. Are you hungry? I thought you’d had your fill earlier.” 

“No….” his voice trailed off as the foreign scent continued to permeate his nose. “I’m alright.” He glanced out the window at the trees that had already begun to lose their leaves. “Are peaches in season?” 

“Are you feeling alright, Mikhailo?” She questioned, concerned by his peculiar inquiries. 

“I’m fine,” he said, “I’m just wondering. Are they in season?” 

“No, we won’t get them again until Mid-May. Our apples aren’t even growing. It was a blistering summer,” she sighed, “as you know too well.”

He nodded. “I’m gonna go…” His voice trailed off as he made his way outside, the smell of peaches growing stronger with every inhale. He laid face down in the tall blades of grass, letting them tickle his skin, allowing his mind to go back to thinking about him, thankful for the visit and aching for more.

***

"Seriously?" Ian asked, his chin jutting out in aggravation. "I died?" 

"You must always die. Dying is the only way to come back alive," Benedicto replied simply, "if it weren't for all your prior deaths you would not have this life, this moment, this man," he gestured to Mickey, who had his hand resting high on Ian's thigh. 

The cool ocean breeze whipped up into a gust and snuffed out several of Benedicto's candles in the process. The old psychic, struck a match and lit them once again, only have them go out again with the next blow. Ian's teeth chattered from the sudden coolness of the air and the nerves that were prickling below his skin. 

"You cold, man? We done with this shit?" Mickey asked, knowing that the conversation was bound to cause a spike in his husband's anxiety in the days to come. 

"I want to know about the last one," Ian stated, crossing his arms over his chest and sighing contentedly when Mickey sidled behind him, wrapped his arms protectively around his waist and pressed his body heat against his back, soothing him. 

"It's not the last, but the next..." Benedicto corrected, drawing an annoyed huff from Mickey, who was resting his chin on Ian's shoulder.

"Let's speed it the fuck up, Benny. It's late and I'm tired," the brunet complained, already thinking about what he could do to calm his husband when they got home. 

The elderly man nodded. "I must warn you though, this life was not easy for either of you and it ended rather abruptly. Would you like me to continue?"

"Well since you really sold it..." Mickey snarked sarcastically. "You alright, baby?" He whispered into Ian's ear, clicking his tongue when the redhead let out a soft 'yeah.' 

"As you know, it was just recently that being homosexual became more socially acceptable," Benedicto began carefully. 

"You ain't telling us anything we don't know," Mickey grunted.

"I know this lifetime hasn't been kind to you in this regard either," the elderly man said, "but you have a strong, loving son to show for your struggles."

"Don't talk about Yevgeny," Ian snapped quickly, "Don't want you to talk about him. Tell us about the past, but don't bring him into it." He couldn't help but be disturbed by the fact that the man sitting across from them knew the way Yevgeny's life would unfold and had insight into the lives he lived in the past. Knowing any of that information felt invasive and downright terrifying. 

Mickey rubbed both of his husband's arms in an attempt to pacify him as Benedicto nodded his understanding. 

"It was the 1950's and you rather unhappily in Maine..."

***

**Portland, Maine August 1954 ******

********

********

Ian aimlessly pushed the peas around his plate with his fork while vaguely listening to Natalie and Anna drone on about the other ladies at the country club. 

“Isn’t it painfully gauche that Greta did that, Ian? I think it’s horribly tacky, don’t you?” Natalie asked, answering her own question just as she typically did; another one of his wife’s habits that aggravated him to no end. 

“Sounds pretty bad,” He agreed dutifully.

“You weren’t even listening to me,” She scoffed, crossing her arms over her ample chest and glaring at him with brown eyes that were demanding an admission of guilt that he wasn’t going to give. 

“That’s why you have Natalie, right? To talk shit about the other girls at the club,” He reasoned, shoving a dinner roll into his mouth, before indicating that it was too full to continue the conversation. 

“Mickey hardly listens to me,” Anna commiserated, tilting her head to the side and sighing in solidarity with her friend.

“I heard that,” the brunet man sitting beside her stated, drawing a laugh from Ian, “so I guess I fucking listen sometimes, right, if I heard that?” 

“Only when I speak negatively about you,” Anna said quietly, giving him a terse grin that screamed ‘shut the fuck up.’ 

“Nah, we know that ain’t true. If it was, I’d be listening to you all the time.” 

Natalie coughed uncomfortably and stood up to clear the dinner plates. “Anna, why don’t you come help me slice the pie?”

Her seething friend nodded and tossed the napkin that had been lying on her lap onto the table, shooting her husband a deadly look before following the other woman into the kitchen. 

“Women,” Mickey grunted, allowing his eyes to study the man sitting across from him. 

Ian just sighed in response, thanking his wife as she placed a piece of apple pie in front of him. 

The couples ate their dessert in tense silence, knowing they shouldn’t say the words that were hanging on the tips of their tongue. The awkwardness had become palpable when Mickey finally took matters into his own hands. “Got that new Hudson Hornet,” he stated, looking directly at Ian, “It’s a V6 but it’s fast as shit. Wanna go for a ride?” 

Instinctively, Ian turned to Natalie, who shrugged her permission.

“Don’t take too long, Mikhailo,” Anna urged as the two men pushed their chairs in and headed towards the front door, “you’re in charge of the dishes and it’s getting late.”

“Whatever,” Mickey muttered, grabbing his car keys and getting the fuck out of the house he hated that he’d bought with the money he made at the job he hated worse.

“Nice,” Ian said simply as they got into the shiny black car.

“Figured we’d head up to Two Lights Park,” the brunet suggested as the engine turned over, “leave the two chickens to peck at each other.”

Ian nodded his agreement and stared forward as they drove down the dark, winding street.

“You lose your voice?” Mickey taunted, licking his lips as he caught a look at Ian through his peripheral vision.

“Just my balls,” he replied simply.

“Know that ain’t true.” He laughed and caught a smile on the other man’s face.

“Sure about that?” Ian flirted, “you wanna check?”

Mickey lifted his eyebrows and rested his hand high on Ian’s thigh, letting it travel towards his crotch as he kept his gaze on the road ahead. “Mmm yeah, knew they were still there.” He continued to rub the bulge in Ian’s slacks as he sped towards their destination.

“Feels good.”

“Gonna make it feel better.”

“Always do,” Ian hummed, dropping his head back, closing his eyes and relishing in the sensation of his lover’s touch, “hold on.” He quickly unbuckled his pants and shimmied them down enough to pull his cock out.

“Fuck,” Mickey grunted, swerving on the road as he salaciously stared at the huge dick, “gonna make me crash this thing.”

“Maybe I want you to,” He retorted, pulling Mickey’s hand back over to his erection, “put me outta my fucking misery.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Mickey chided as he stroked the redhead’s cock, “can’t think about losing your dumbass.”

“I’d bring you with me,” Ian said between his groans, “escape together.” He began to pant as Mickey picked up his pace, “Pull over. I gotta fuck you.”

“We’re almost there, baby,” the brunet laughed, loving that he had the power in his palm to make the other man lose his mind.

“So am I,” he stated, biting his lower lip hard, trying to gain control.

“Hold out,” Mickey urged, unrelenting in his pumping, “as soon as we park I’m gonna bend my ass over for you and make you fill it up.”

“Mmm drive faster.”

Once he pulled up to their familiar fucking spot at the top of the bluff, Mickey had Ian do just that. Grabbing on to the upholstery of the backseat of his car, he moaned as his lover took him from behind.

“I love you,” Ian whispered, hunching over Mickey’s back and licking his ear lobe as he pushed into him deeper.

“I love you,” He sighed, turning his head and tilting his chin up so Ian could lean in to lock their mouths together.

Ian dragged his hand down the foggy window as he came, shivering and shaking through the intensity of his orgasm while his lover did the same.

“Goddamn, Gallagher,” Mickey complimented, once he caught his breath enough to speak, “Just gave me the fuck of my lifetime, man.”

“Giving you what you deserve,” he replied with a smirk, pressing his lips against Mickey’s for one last lazy kiss before they headed back to their lives. When he pulled back he noticed contemplation deep in his blue eyes.

“Were you serious?” Mickey questioned, “about wanting to die?”

“Don’t have much to live for,” Ian stated plainly, “besides you, everything is shit. I’ve thought a lot about running away…”

“and?”

“And what would we run to? There’s no magical place where people like us are accepted. We’d spend the rest of our lives hiding. I’d rather not live if it means we’re always going to be doing it halfway and in the corners. Do you believe in Heaven?”

Mickey nodded, “Yeah, but I don’t think they’re rolling out the fucking red carpet for our type up there.”

“Maybe not, but we don’t know,” Ian stated, taking a drag from the cigarette Mickey lit for them, “what could be worse than the hell we’re living?”

“Actual Hell?” Mickey suggested with a smirk. He watched as beams streamed down from the lighthouse and alternated between illuminating and casting shadows on Ian’s perfect face. Each time the darkness lifted to give way to light, he looked more like an angel, washed in so much beauty that Mickey began thinking Heaven must exist if he did. Maybe Ian had been sent down to him to free him from his life; an Angel of Mercy ready to take him away. “I think we should.”

“You what?” Ian questioned, surprise dancing across his eyes.

“End it,” Mickey said quietly.

“Start it,” Ian corrected.

“The car?”

“That too,” he stated, “but our lives… we do this and it isn’t the end, right? It’s the beginning. There has to be something better for us… so we find it.”

“At the bottom of the ocean?

“Maybe?”

“This is pretty fucking crazy,” the brunet said, his hands trembling as he turned the key in the ignition, “and what if we never find it? Something better?”

“We’ll be dead then and we won’t know,” Ian said matter-of-factly. He placed his hand on Mickey’s cheek and looked him square in the eyes, “Maybe we should talk this out a little more. It doesn’t seem like you’re really sure.”

“It doesn’t seem like something you’re supposed to think through. You just fucking do it, so let’s fucking do it,” He said pressing his lips against Ian’s for a frenzied kiss. “I’d rather roll the dice on happiness than take the sure bet of sadness.”

“I’d live for you,” Ian promised, “if you don’t wanna do this, I’d live for you.”

“Rather die for you,” Mickey assured him, laying his foot heavy on the gas and intertwining their fingers as the car shot forward “and hope for the chance that we’ll live again.”

They soared through the air before being tucked into the water, resting in the peace they were never given the opportunity to have. 

***

Ian and Mickey both sat in stunned silence, staring at Benedicto with wide eyes. It took several swallows for Ian to be able to push down the lump that had risen in his throat. "So that was it?" he questioned, voice shaking "we killed ourselves?"

Benedicto nodded.

“So we just fucking suffer?” Mickey asked through gritted teeth, “That’s what you wanted to show us? That from one life to the next we suffer?” 

“No, I want to show you how you survive,” the older man stated matter-of-factly. 

“We died,” Ian argued, “that isn’t surviving.” 

“Bodies aren’t souls,” Benedicto reminded him. “When your bodies are gone, your souls survive. There is something beautiful about this choice you made, yes? You took the lover’s leap, off a cliff, hands held tight…”

"Into this life," Mickey added, unclenching his fists and thinking how strange it was that Benedicto was making a lot of sense, "Does shit every carry through, y'know, from one life to the next?"

"You already know the answer to that question," Benedicto said with a nod. "It would be nearly impossible for our souls to shed all the damage that's been done to them. We hold it, learn from it, grow past it, but it remains."

"Can't even imagine how fucked up shit's gonna be in our next life," Mickey stated, earning a sad smile from his husband. 

"I won't deny that your souls are heavy and full of scars, but you always find each other. You brace yourselves and hoist the other on your back when the load becomes too burdensome to bear. Almas gemelas, soulmates. Some believe the notion is purely romantic, but they are mistaken," Benedicto explained, "A true soulmate is a soldier sent to protect the fragility of the darkest corners of your soul. They don't expect the shiny or clean, instead digging deep into the pain in order assuage; comfort to the Nth degree. Their heartbeat finds the same pattern as yours because their blood pumps through their body with a shared purpose; to love you better than you can love yourself."

"I want to be that to you," Ian whispered, overcome with emotion, a tear trickling down his face, "I want to be that."

"You are that," Mickey assured him, brushing away the tear and resting his forehead against his husband's, "Always been that."

"Should've done better," he stated, "Wanted to do better."

"When you were weak I carried you," Mickey said, "but you carried me, too," he promised, squeezing his eyes shut, "you were always enough."

"I wanted to be more," Ian sighed, his voice trembling.

"You're everything. Always been everything." He could feel Benedicto's eyes fixed on them but the sound of the waves lapping against the sand, and the way Ian was grasping onto his hands compelled him not to give a shit. After all, the psychic had witnessed more intimate moments between them than their mortal minds could remember. 

Lost in the present as much as the past, they melted in each other, each touch grounding them more. With every whispered 'I love you' came increased ardor between adhered lips, so much so that they didn't notice the blanket being pulled from beneath their hips. And when they finally came up from air, they realized that Benedicto was no longer there. The moon had fallen low in the sky as the sun began its daily rise, splaying streaks of orange and pink across the horizon. 

"I love you," Ian whispered, wondering how many million times he'd said it before, hoping they’d have plenty of lives together to say it more. 

"I love you, too," Mickey promised, feeling the words deep in his bones, a confirmation that Ian’s soul had always been his home. 

They walked back to their house with spinning heads and hands held tight, knowing that as long as they were together they would be alright… infinitely.


End file.
